Shadows
by DoctorPerky
Summary: In which a certain ramen shop owner dwells alone in her world of unspoken thoughts. {manga references: progresses post-433, minor spoilers}


warnings: angst. First person narrative. Vague hints to the recent manga arc, though my aim is not to spoil. (and really, it's more a case of, _where the hell did my muse go, _but I'm going to avoid that topic for now c: )

Disclaimer: Gintama is Sorachi-sensei's. Not mine.

Summary: In which Ikumatsu dwells alone in a world of unspoken thoughts.

* * *

_Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler._  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

i.

"If something should happen to me, make sure that man gets his fill."

I blindly acknowledge these words, as if surely nothing could ever happen to my husband. As if somehow, in all my naive thinking, we'd be separated from each other in death at the same moment. I recall grabbing his hand and smiling at him, reassuring him that I'd do my best to fulfill that obligation, not even considering the possibility that something could actually happen.

Smiling, laughing, the last things I did that night.

The last memories I shared with him.

ii.

Normally I'm the one who wakes up earlier and I end up having to wake him up, but that morning was the exception.

My eyes cracked open, and a quick glance proved that he wasn't anywhere to be found in the room.

I sluggishly make my way to the closet to get ready for the day. But not too much later did I hear the sound of banging on the front door of the shop. Thinking that it was simply an impatient customer, I didn't really make any haste in answering it. But when I opened it, mentioning that the shop was closed, the time after began to blur together.

One of the women who frequented my shop grabbed me and started yelling.

In the confusion, all I remember were the buildings flying past, the air searing in my chest, a cold sweat breaking out as I ran past everything in my way. The words echoed in my mind: It's Daigo!

By the time I got there, I could only see a bloody mass on the ground with a sheet covering it, the crowds of onlookers and their mouths open in disbelief. My mouth soon was open in a manner not unlike theirs. As winded as I was from running my fastest to get there, I couldn't even let myself catch my breath.

In spite of how much I forced myself to breathe then, suffocation seemed like a great option at the time.

iii.

It's always hardest when I'm by myself at night. No distractions to keep me from my thoughts, nothing to keep me from thinking about him, nothing stopping me from wanting the warmth of his touch.

But, his hand isn't there. No matter how far I reach for it, it's never coming back. All I feel is the coldness of the futon as my hand falls. It's a coldness, an emptiness, that burns terribly in my heart.

I go on my days, thinking that everything will mend itself in time. I'm an idiot, really. Nothing will change. Not at least until I carry forward with my life. I need to stop stalling in this one point of time. But it's just impossible. I cannot help thinking that, somehow, somewhere he's really okay, that he's just lying low somewhere trying his best to survive. That someday he'd walk through those doors and greet me with a hug and a kiss as he always does. That someday we'd live again as we normally did.

Yet, none of that would ever happen. I really am an idiot.

iv.

On a particular night, after the shop closed, I stormed up to the upstairs apartment and furiously began to wash some clothing. I wasn't having a good day to begin with; it wasn't that everyone was rude – everyone was actually very polite and friendly – but for whatever reason, I was feeling very hostile toward everyone. At least, if it wasn't my ire I was displaying, it was my sadness. I felt terrible for being so unkind to my customers, especially my regulars. That definitely made me feel worse.

After a while spent washing clothes, I felt a little better. Still annoyed, yes, but it wasn't as bad as it was earlier. And so I finished and decided that, on a perfect moonlit night such as that, I'd hang my clothing outside. Everything went as normal.

Looking back, I think that I should have just gone inside when I heard those sirens blaring nearby. It certainly would have saved me a lot of trouble later on.

v.

He grabbed my bra. I threw the basket at him.

Excellent first impressions? Please.

There is no excuse for his actions, and no excuse for mine. In time, there was a moment when I was afraid I might even have injured him, but he was already wounded. Why did I feel bad for a man I only knew of from the Shinsengumi's most wanted reports, a man that should be the target of all my anger?

Despite all of his quirkiness, his talk of the terrible weather, all of the lies he told to protect himself, to protect me, I wasn't interested in kicking him out. Not just yet. Maybe that was my biggest mistake, my undoing. A kindness I could only show to him, because surely I couldn't be kind to myself. Not after I was too late getting to Daigo on that day.

In his own subtle way he was showing me kindness, too. Chasing out Daigo's no-good brother. Saving me from him.

I don't deserve this.

vi.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

Or, really, it isn't so much that I hate him, but what he stands for. A confusing sort. I never understood his motives, and I probably never will. But if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that he's not intentionally out to make my life miserable. And I shouldn't treat him as if he was doing that.

Every time I lash out at him for whatever reason, I always feel guilty, uncomfortable, impolite. Those emotions I know I shouldn't feel over actions I know I shouldn't be taking.

All I do is turn my back to him and hope he doesn't notice.

He's become incredibly perceptive, I can say that much.

vii.

He comes into the shop more often than before.

He's the only person who seems to care about ordering anything from me these days. Even if it's just soba. I honestly don't understand him. His motives are always unclear.

He should really just cut that hair of his. He really should...

viii.

He wants to help me look for something I've lost.

Guarding my own personal feelings instead of sharing my pain with others. This pride I carry over my own emotions, my own problems. I had always known it was a mistake to even mention the kerchief, that it would lead to everyone being involved in this confusing mess for my own sake.

I've always been a selfish child, wanting that which I could never have. Just wanting.

Mom, Dad, Daigo, do I really deserve these people?

ix.

The ladies who come by the shop keep goading me about him, about how I might be romantically involved with him. Honestly, I don't think I'll be ready for that type of companionship any time soon.

But, as irritating as he is, long hair, stupidity, and all, he really does have a point.

Family or not, I shouldn't keep myself, my thoughts, so guarded. Those walls I put up around myself, they shouldn't be there. At least, not around those I trust. My mother raised me to be more honest than that, and I'm certain she'd be disappointed in how I've acted.

I'm so sorry.

x.

It's just the two of us in the shop.

He eats in silence and I am casting glances out the window while I work. The skies are dark and the imminent rain threatens to pour on the roof tiles. In these years, I've always thought he was the bringer of the rain. But I have found that the storms exist just as much in my heart too.

It took me this long to realize and accept this. That in my own unsteady heart I found it more important to try to help others when I was really the one who needed the help the most.

The silence between us is awkward, unsettling. And each and every time he visits I yearn even more for the days where all I'd do is give him grief over his hair every time he said something idiotic. How, instead of nothing, we'd at least share a lighthearted laugh at his expense. Despite all of my insults, my coldness, he keeps coming back. Despite all of what I do and don't do...

My back is still turned to him, the familiar noise of the stool dragging backward against the floor and the thud of coins against the counter. His back is already turned and he proceeds to the door. As with every other time, I drop my arms to my side and watch him walk away, my heart growing heavy with the increasing distance.

The nauseated feeling that wells in my stomach, my heart throwing itself against my chest, and the lightheaded feeling I get when my breathing is reduced to shallow rasps, all of this I've dismissed as nothing more than simple anxiety. Clearly, it's more than that; it's a feeling I hated to admit having.

After all this time, I've finally grown weary of bearing this mess of emotions. Without even thinking of the consequences, or minding what he'd think, I rush over to grab his arm and this chance to convey to him something I've held in for so long.

Eyes averted, my hand tightly clutching the sleeve of his haori instead, I manage to spurt out a simple request.

"We need to talk."


End file.
